Pattern of Development
by sych77
Summary: Warren's father was just trying to protect his family. But from what? All Warren saw was a man who experimented on mutants. Telling him he is one of them is going to be difficult. When a lout named James Logan enters the picture, life gets interesting
1. Unlikely Caregiver

**Disclaimer: **I don't own X-Men or any of its associated characters or places. I'm only going to say this once, because I doubt that this state will change in future chapters.

**AN:** could there possibly be an Angel story that isn't romance? Well, the wings are hot. So let's backtrack until there weren't any wings and he was a child, and explore life with a rather bemused father, a sickly mother, and a sister who dreams of being "a teenage dirtbag, baby", embroiled among the Hellfire club, Alcatraz, and the rather horrendous notion of prejduice. Enjoy, and let's begin to find out who this sexy, mysterious Angel _really _is.

* * *

At first, there was only light.

But, as the eye sharpened and adjusted, shapes begun to be more and more distinguishable from the endless white, as if emerging from a very thick mist. Colour followed quickly, until what had previously been mere monochrome billowed into clear, technicoloured 3D in a matter of seconds.

The four year old blinked rapidly as the process occurred, tottering unsteadily on his short plump legs in the doorway, one hand stretched out in front of him to keep his balance. With a shake of his golden curls, the after-images rapidly cleared. He scowled precociously at the flourescent lights above, which had been the cause of the trouble, before ambling around the white corridors.

They reminded him of something he'd seen in a movie not so long ago. His older sister had been watching it intently, seemingly fascinated by a man with a sword made of light. All the young boy could remember was this sword, a shiny gold individual, and a woman with snail-like bumps on the side of her head who said things like "help me Obi Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope".

"_Aliens_."

He turned the corner, making small noises to himself and pretending he was on a spaceship.

He hadn't gone very far when a warm voice cut through his make-believe, dissolving the imaginative world in an instant.

"Hullo. What are you doing here?"

The speaker was a woman, in her early twenties. Beneath the white trenchcoat she wore a knitted pink zip-up jersey, and pale jeans. Her hair was pulled together at the nape of her neck in a messy blonde bun.

"'Ullo," he echoed, barely sparing her a glance before he returned to making the _"Brr"_ noise he imagined spacecrafts made.

The woman knelt down in front of him, a frown creasing her pretty young face. "You shouldn't be here," she said as if to herself, "the labs are no place for a child."

He looked at her blankly, blinking once. Her eyes were a pale blue, and nearly too large for her face. She reminded him of another thing he'd seen on TV. It had involved a girl with big blue eyes and blonde hair. She'd been wearing a pink dress. There had been a green dragon. And flames.

She sighed, cocking her head to look at him. "What's your name?"

"Warren," said young Warren, "Wha's yours?"

"Emma Frost. It's good to meet you, Warren."

The young boy stretched his chubby hand forward immediately. Emma took it, and solemnly they shook hands, although the corners of the woman's mouth seemed to quirk slightly.

"Well, Warren, what are you doing here?"

"Seein' my Daddy."

"What's your Daddy's name?"

The four year old stared at her blankly, and blinked once. "Daddy," he replied, slowly, as if she were an idiot.

"Of course," she agreed, rolling her eyes, "How silly of me. Now then, what is your last name?"

"My las' name?"

"Yes."

The child pondered this, looking up at her through those soft blond curls. He beamed suddenly, the smile illuminating his face with a strength that outshone even the flourescent lights. "My name's Warren."

Emma groaned inwardly. This is why she hated kids. They were nonsensical. Look, this one was now muttering something unintelligible about a dragon! She stood, frowning once more. Despite how she might feel about what her fiance affectionately termed "sprogs", she couldn't leave this young child here by himself. There were important experiments being run in these labs, some that definitely weren't for children's eyes.

She ground her teeth. When she found out who's boy this was, there would be some very stern words had with management.

Checking furtively down the corridors. Emma reached for the young boy's hand. He took it instantly, clinging to her steadily while still murmuring nonsense about dragons and fire. As their hands come into contact, Emma pushed her psychic self gently against the exterior of the child's mind.

Suddenly, she was hit by a rush of emotions, memories and thoughts.

Children were more chaotic than she had ever thought. Never before had she used her mutant gift on someone so young – in fact, she wasn't supposed to be using it at all. Invasion of privacy and such. Or so she had been told.

Pressing on, the telepath searched through Warren's mind until she found what she needed. A memory of family dinner, not so long ago, when he'd watched _"Sleeping Beauty_" with his sister to avoid being pinched on the cheek by numerous doting elderly relatives.

"Well, at least that explains the dragons," Emma mused.

The memory continued, until the boy's father entered. She recognized the man's features immediately, taking a hissing intake of breath. That mouth in its thin grim line couldn't be disguised, even by laughter.

"Of course," she said, exiting Warren's mind and looking down at the small boy who was still clutching her hand, "You're Warren Worthington Junior." She nearly laughed, remembering the solemn pompousity with which the child had shaken her hand. "I might've guessed."

"'es," he replied comfortably, "my name's Warren."

"Do you want to go see your Daddy now?"

"'es!" he squeaked. Then, remembering himself, he added, "Please."

Emma led the way, hand in hand with the chubby child wandering along beside her until she grew frustrated with his slow pace. Huffing irritably, she picked Warren up and positioned him on her hip, thus able to move faster through the maze-like network of corridors until she reached the research laboratory of Doctor Warren Worthington, the Second.

Her knuckles connected firmly with the cool silver surface of the door. She heard the frustrated mutters of the Doctor within as he packed away whatever he had been using and crossed the room. The door opened to reveal his graying head, the dark eyes beneath the brows glimmering with confusion as he looked from her to his young son and back to her again.

"I think I found something belonging to you," Emma said, hefting Warren's dead weight off her hip and offering him to Worthington. The doctor took the young boy and propped him on his own hip easily, gently stroking the curls with the back of his hand, despite being still a little confused. Emma scooted around the pair into the lab, sitting down of the hard stools by the writing bench leisurely. "You know, Worthington," she continued, "if it had been anyone else's child..."

"I know, Miss Frost, I know." He sat down on a stool opposite her, the one as close as his distaste of mutants would allow, still cradling his son's head. The young Warren seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings now that he had been reunited with his beloved "_Daddy"_ and was content to fall asleep in the comfort of his father's hold.

"Why is he even here?"

Worthington took his free hand away from the boy's face, running it through his own hair and shaking his head apologetically. "You have my deepest apologies. I was... foolish."

"You are not usually a foolish man, doctor." When her researcher did not reply, Emma stood and walked closer to him. She leaned on the bench just in front of him, enjoying the way the doctor's neck craned back as far away from her as possible. "You're very important to Alcatraz, Worthington. If there is some... home trouble... I need to know before it becomes _"work"_ trouble." She smiled, showing her pretty white teeth intentionally. "And if you won't tell me, I have other ways of finding out."

"That won't be necessary, Miss Frost."

Emma was impressed to hear the strength of his voice, the calm undertones. Although he was as far away as he could be at the current point in time, Doctor Worthington truly did not hate mutants. He merely didn't know how to deal with them. To some degree he even respected them, but Emma knew she and her kind would always strike a little horror into such a man's soul.

She sank back onto her stool, watching the man carefully.

"My wife... she is, well, she's sick..."

'_Ah'_ thought Emma, _'So that's why he'll experiment on healing mutants to try to find cures... Not many people have the stomach to carry the experiments out...'_

"And with her being... sick... and me working so much, there's no one really there for the kids. Except the nanny, of course, but they don't like her very much... you know how kids are... they want me, they want their mother, but we can't..." Worthington shrugged, a hint of embarrassment flickering over his aristocratic features as he admitted what a bad father he was. "Well, I don't _"want" _to be an absentee father. And when Amelia went off on a school camp... well, I couldn't leave Warren on his own with the nanny after kindergarten..."

"So you brought him here for the day, instead," Emma finished.

"Well, I did leave him with Anna Mc-"

"Alcatraz does not have a damn creche, Doctor!"

He didn't answer, just balanced his son more comfortably on his knee and stroked the downy curls, as if to shield the boy from her unpleasant voice.

Emma sighed, and put her fingers to her temples. "Alright," she said, more softly, "the boy can stay for the rest of the day. But this is a research facility, Worthington. Your son could hurt himself here..."

She trailed off, gazing at the boy's face as some niggling detail nudged at her mind. Something that she had picked up...

"Miss Frost? Emma?"

The doctor's voice was so far away...

She was in a memory now...

_'a memory of a memory of a memory that wasn't hers'_

There was something, some detail that she had noticed but not realized...

A secret.

Her blue eyes flew open, settling once again on the sleeping four year old who was nestled so snuggly into the crook of his father's arm, face burrowed into his shoulder.

'_A secret so well hidden even it's carrier doesn't know it's there...'_

She swallowed as she looked into his father's concerned gaze.

_'Worthington doesn't hate mutants, they just scare him, make him uneasy,' _she reminded herself, licking her lips nervously. But the new discovery nudged at her well-hidden conscience, as if she could see a premonition of things to come.

She swallowed, with difficulty.

"If... if something happens like this again," she began hesitantly, wondering what had gotten into her – _I don't even damn well like kids! - _"then young Warren can stay in my office. I could use the distraction, I guess, and it's not like the papers are particularly dangerous..."

Worthington looked at the young, female boss of the Alcatraz company with thankful surprise. "Oh, Miss Frost..." he said softly, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. He's uh - " she looked at the child, and tried not to see images of her own painful past overlapping on him. - _"He's got a loving father, a devoted father. He'll be fine. He'll be fine. And now, somehow, he's got me. Because I just volunteered, like an idiot to babysit. He'll be fine. He won't turn out like I did"_, "He's adorable."

He smiled down at Warren's sleeping form, and laughed with surprising gentleness. "Thank you. I consider it a job well done. I don't think I even want him to grow up and lose this baby-fat," he said, as he stood and carefully laid the boy on the top of the table, using his unworn suit-jacket as a pillow. He turned and smiled at his employer, "it makes him look like a cherub, don't you think?"

Emma smiled sadly in return, before saying in an even softer voice – so soft it barely entered the range of human hearing, like a pained admission of guilt, "Yes. He really is an Angel..."

* * *

---

_Random Musing 1: _

_so ending, kinda cheesy. Would be great if Emma Frost existed in movie-verse because that is kinda o-of-c and I think that would foreshadow. However. _

_The daughter, Warren's sister: she's older than Warren, at this point hadn't decided how old but old enough to be at school and impressed by Luke Skywalker (weren't we all). Originally she was named Cheyenne, a delightfully posh French name, but then changed for the not-so posh and not-so French name of Amelia, because I liked it better. And I had also the time to develop her character more, and Amelia fits better because it can be shortened to Amie but also has that aristocratic feel about it._

_Miss Frost herself: okay, so probably she wouldn't be condoning experimentation on mutants but i don't care about the original Miss Frost so much as using her as a plot device. So, tried to make her a little ... evil, i guess... can't think of the word... but anyway its shown how she uses telepathy for her own means and is trying to freak out the good doctor _

_The good doctor: trying to make him a brilliant researcher but a rather baffled father. Fondness, to show that he does care about his son but doesn't know how to deal, a factor later compounded with the whole mutation thing._

_**Please R & R. Feed the plot bunnies, for they are hungry**  
_


	2. Meet the Matriach

**Wow. **_I was expecting one review, perhaps two at the most. Thanks guys, you doubled my expectations! Hopefully this chapter will warrant a similar response! The plot bunnies are quite content... at the moment, anyway... But why does it say that I have 51 "hits" on my stats? Is it so bad that 46 people couldn't bring themselves to end the starvation of the plot bunnies? Oh, that makes me sad... **sniff**_

_**ahem**_

_Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Kathryn Worthington shot out a hand, gripping onto the stair's railing in a desperate attempt to steady herself. She clung there for a few seconds, breathing heavily, before she felt confident enough to push herself back onto her feet. Although she righted her balance with relative ease, she left both hands coiled around the cool wood in case a wave of weakness should hit her again. The entire time, the knocks at the door kept reverberating through the entrance hall and up the steps to her ears.

"Coming," she muttered weakly.

_It would be the one time Sally's on errands _and _Amelia's at school. The one time a week I'm by myself for a window of thirty minutes and someone comes to bang impatiently on the door._

The matriach of the Worthington family was approaching thirty-two years old, but she was as frail as if she was forty years older. She suffered the same strange, genetic abnormality that induced weakness as her mother and maternal grandmother before her. They had lived to be forty and thirty nine, respectively. Kathryn was beginning to fear her time was nearly up. The only solace she could take was in the fact that she didn't appear to have passed the hereditary curse onto her young daughter.

She was so pale that her skin was little more than a transparent layer covering networks of blue and red blood vessels. It was the type of pale that only years worth of bed-rest can bring. Generally speaking, the only sun she saw came through windows with the blinds closed. Her hair, normally a graying, light brown, had been dyed to a darker shade in an attempt to hide her aging, but this accentuated the ivory of her skin even more. In addition, her mouth looked too pink and her eyes too big and blue for her face. All in all, she bore a remarkable resemblance to a life-size porcelain doll.

Her foot, encased in a fluffy white slipper, trembled as it reached for the next step. Luckily, she had convinced her husband years ago to get rid of the rug that had lined the stairs and carpet them completely. The thick red carpet gripped her small slippers as she stumbled along, where a mat would have slipped and sent her tumbling down the stairs. After what seemed like a life-time, her descent of the stairs was complete. The double-doored entrance to the house was about 15 feet away from her, across a floor of smooth white marble.

_Maybe I should get a rug for in here, _she thought as she tottered nervously across, _it looks a little austere. Entrance halls should be welcoming, and yet all we have is plain marble and some showy, antique furniture._ It saddened her that she lived in something that was more of a show-house than a home.

On either side of the double doors were hatched-glass panels. Behind them she could see fuzzy outlines of people, the same people who had been impatiently waiting for her come down to answer their summons. She twisted the key that hung in the lock, hearing the click as the mechanism released. She opened the right-side door carefully, making sure she kept her balance and didn't go sprawling on the shiny floor in front of these strangers. To help stay stable, she continued to hold onto the door handle even when it was fully open.

In front of these people who had come calling, Kathryn suddenly felt self-conscious, aware that she looked like a classical example of an invalid. She was wearing flannel red pyjamas and a white dressing gown that matched her slippers, with dark hair spilling out of a rough bun. As if that wasn't bad enough, her eyes were irritated today and were red-rimmed in her pale face.

The man and woman on her doorstep took in her appearance at the same time as she was taking in theirs. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her hair, which was pulled back into a tight ponytail, was dyed black and then streaked purple. She had a silver nose stud which had a purple gem in the center gleaming above her left nostril, and hazel eyes. She wore black knee-high boots on the outside of her jeans and a tight white shirt.

"Mrs Worthington?" she asked.

"Yes. Can I help you?"

"My name's Theresa." The girl sounded foreign, but also polite. Kathryn was a little taken aback by that, assuming from her clothing that she would be crude. Later, Kathryn would see the foreigner had the design of the Union Jack embroidered on the back pocket of her jeans. The girl indicated her partner. "This is Chris. We work with your husband."

Chris was older, early thirties probably, Kathryn guessed. He was also wearing jeans, but these were of a baggier variety than the girl's, and a loose black shirt. His hair was wild, and obviously he hadn't shaved in a while.

After looking at the both of them and comparing them to her mental representations of her husband's colleagues, Kathryn Worthington was one hundred percent certain that the duo weren't researchers at Alcratraz Laboratories.

_So what are they doing here? _For the first time in her life, she began to think that perhaps being as rich as they were could be a bad thing.

Eyeing them nervously, she replied, as polite as ever, "He's not here." She gripped the round doorknob in her hand a little tighter, and felt her palm begin to sweat. The colour began to bleed out of the surroundings, as if some Almighty Being had put the contrast up too high, until only white, black and gray were left. Her head began to feel exceedingly heavy, and shooting pain pulsed above her right eye.

_Oh no... not now... these attacks always hit at the most inopportune moments..._

She blinked and grit her teeth until the colours returned and the pain subsided, and tried not to sway on the spot. The entire incident must have taken less than a second, because she was tuning into Theresa's reply without having missed a single word of the conversation.

"Oh." Theresa sniffed and dabbed quickly at her nose with a white handkerchief. Kathryn wondered dazedly what would happen to the nose stud if the girl sniffed really hard. "Well, that's okay. We just came by to deliver him something. Can... could you pass it on to him? Please."

"Well, sure," said Kathryn, relief flooding over her. So, the unlikely co-workers of her husband were in fact delivery people. Not some crook bent on taking their riches, or even some irate GE-free believer or animal rights activist who was under the mistaken belief that her husband tampered with the genetic makeup of animals. Not some one who wished her harm. "Is it dangerous, though? A hazardous chemical or something?"

The man reached into his pocket and drew out a small white paper-bag the contained something box-shaped. He turned it over in his hands before directing his gaze back at her. "Nah, not harmful. Just something for Doctor Worthington to take a look at." His voice was rough, as if he was suffering the same cold as the girl, but his eyes were sharp and showed no sign of illness. His companion seemed to flinch when he reached his hand past her.

"Okay, thanks." Kathryn took the parcel from his outstretched arm. "I'll tell him you stopped by."

"Yeah, okay." Chris turned on his heal and left. He coughed as he walked down the drive, a hacking cough like those that are associated with lung cancer or chest infection – _must be sick after all. Annoying how if someone in the workplace gets ill, everyone does._

Theresa nodded, and murmured, "Thanks. It was good to meet you," before she followed her partner. The end of her long black-and-purple ponytail swayed over her back as she walked down the steps.

Kathryn watched them go, holding the small paper bag to her chest in her free had. When she was convinced that they were indeed leaving – and not nipping through the tidy gardens to the back, or something like that – she closed the door and locked it to its twin. She checked that both were properly closed, and then turned and leaned her back against them.

_So jumpy_, she scolded herself, closing her eyes. _Two people deliver something for Warren and I assume they're hired muscle._ She sighed tiredly. _Maybe I should talk to him about upping my medication, or something._

Her hands balled around the white bag as soon as she thought of it, making it rustle and the box inside warp slightly out of shape. She hated the pills. She hated the way they looked, elliptical and smooth, and the way they felt and tasted as they wormed down her throat. She hated the feelings she got on days when she decided to skip the tablets in the morning – the shaking, the sweating, the nausea. But she utterly despised the way she acted when she did take them – mounting feelings of paranoia and despair. Staring at her daughter and failing to recognise Amelia's sweet, tearful face.

Sighing, Kathryn walked slowly to the stone pedestal to her right. It was an antique from Rome, probably only a few centuries old – positively _modern _in Roman terms – but beautiful enough. Around the ornately carved 'stem' were her children's shoes, neatly paired and pushed out of the way. On its smooth, flat surface sat her favourite plant, Maidenhair, in a bright yellow pot that seemed humorously out of place. She gently pushed some of the plant's long fronds out of the way, and set the white package down where Warren would see it when he got home later, after picking Amelia up from school and Warren Junior up from creche, and going back to the labs for the inevitable overtime.

She knew she had to get up the stairs, before another dizzy spell hit her. She'd been lucky before. That sudden burst of stress when she thought the duo had come for her or her husband had triggered something, and although that one hadn't caused her to faint, Kathryn knew from experience that her 'episodes' frequently come in three's. And falling onto the hard marble, with no one around to make sure she was okay, was not the most appealing notion. Slowly, cautiously, she wobbled over the steps and wrapped her hands tightly around the banister. She hoisted herself up one step at a time, muscles shaking with the effort and sweat beginning to appear on her brow. Upon reaching the last step, she hurriedly stumbled into her bedroom and sunk gratefully into the large armchair by the half-open balcony door. She breathed in the sweet smell of the garden air as her perception of colour faded again, and waited patiently for the spell to end.

Outside, 'Theresa' rubbed her nose, careful not to pull on the tiny glittering stud nestled in the fold of skin. Then, she tossed her ponytail around to inspect the ends under the light. She huffed. "That shampoo din't do jack. The purple's beginnin' to show through a'ready."

Her partner shrugged. "Can't help you there, Lisa. Maybe you should go bald, you know. Actually, that's a blimming fantastic idea, 'cos then I wouldn't have to hear you continuously whinin' about it."

"Yeah, you know what, James? Screw you."

Chris, or James as we know him to be, held a hand against his heart in mock pain. "I am wounded," he pronounced, and then proceeded to ruin the moment by coughing and spitting phlegm into a nearby bush.

Lisa snorted, flinging her dual-coloured hair over her shoulder. She pulled out a set of car-keys and walked over to a nondescript white Ford, the heels of her black boots clacking loudly against the concrete footpath. The car was probably only worth a few hundred. It was only ten years old, but the miles were high and it had seen its share of rough driving over the years. Lisa was quite attached to it, though, even when many her friends had long ago upgraded to fancier models. It was the first car she ever stole, and they'd seen some sights together.

"Good thing you have a healin' factor then, ain't it?" she retorted. She turned the key and the central-locking mechanism whirred. Shooting a glare at James, she opened the door. "Now git in the car. We got work to do."

* * *

_Random Musing 2:_

_I checked out the Worthington's on an x-men comic sight before I wrote this (which is how I found out that they _were _actually in contact with Emma Frost - woo, gold star for me!) and found out that Angel's mother is indeed named Kathryn. I'm not sure what happened to her though, only that she appears to have fallen out of the picture by the time the Last Stand comes around. Anyway, obviously when she thinks about "Warren' she's referring to her husband, not her son. Sorry if that gets confusing, but it seemed contrived to do so any other way._

_I wasn't going to introduce James into the story this early, but it seemed to go well. Three guesses as to who he is, or rather, who he turns into_

_Lisa is based on both a mutant from the comic series, and my friend by the same name. I'm not sure how that happened. Anyways, she would pop up from time to time as the story progresses_

_**Please Review! Keep the plot-bunnies fat and content.**_


	3. Caught up in Work

_Sorry, I've been so busy with exams and university lately! But here we go. ahem _

_Bigger, better, and now with Dolby Surround!_

_Okay so maybe I'm lying about the Dolby. Possibly the better too. But it definitely is bigger! Read and enjoy._

_And then review._

_(please? Whine, beg, plead, puppy-dog eyes)_

* * *

Warren Worthington, the Second, was a distracted man as he drove home later that night. It was two weeks after Emma Frost had found his son in the lab that Friday afternoon, and two strange people had delivered a small paper bag to his wife. The sun had set a good three hours ago, and the old-fashioned lanterns lining the road that looked so picturesque under its light now seemed ridiculous. They barely produced a strong enough glow to illuminate their own bases. He flicked the headlights onto full beam.

He'd come home a littler earlier than usual that Friday, worried that Miss Frost's unusual benevolence wouldn't last. Sally had met him at the door, a slightly accusing look on her weary face. The maid-come-nanny had informed him that Kathryn had been asleep ever since Sally had returned from running errands. Worthington had felt relived, because he had forgotten to remind his wife that their daughter was going to camp and that he would take Warren to work with him after kindergarten.

_Or creche, as Kathryn insists on calling it_.

The white paper bag had caught his eye almost immediately. He quickly rushed Warren off to bed – the four year old was almost asleep, so that didn't take much effort – and checked his wife was sleeping peacefully before he hurdled back down the stairs to entrance-hall and the package, and finally picked it up.

Just a simple, white, paper bag. Plain. Like the ones pharmacists wrap up prescriptions in so other shoppers can't tell the Doris is taking medicine for skin infection and other such scandals. He had tipped it in his palm, and pulled the box out.

It had been slightly out of shape, as if someone had gripped it too tight, but it was what was inside that mattered. Worthington had opened the small box and taken out a small glass vial. It was filled to the brim with dark blood.

_I still can't believe it, _Worthington marveled, changing down a gear to take a corner. _William and James finally managed to do it._

For years they'd tried to get a sample of this blood, but they'd never been able to get it to stay quite right once it was in a test-tube. It was like a chameleon, slowly reverting into ordinary mammalian blood when separated from the host. He'd have to quiz the two men about how they did it at the meeting tomorrow.

Since receiving the sample, Worthington had been spending more and more time at the labs looking at it under high-powered microscopes. Although it was obviously blood, many of the properties appeared to be different. These differences had gripped his imagination, but he feared he didn't have the ability to fully exploit them without help. He needed William and James. But their assistance never came cheap. Just the sample had cost a substantial amount of land in the North. Worthington wondered what they would want next.

That, he decided, was the problem of tomorrow's meeting. He guided the black Mercedes into the garage and killed the engine, leaving it in first. He always left it in first. It had driven Kathryn crazy when she was well enough to drive. Worthington smiled as he got out of the car with his briefcase, remembering the days when Kathryn had complained about starting the car only to have stall immediately. The smile dropped quickly, though. Those days were long gone. He locked the car and set the electronic garage door to close, and walked over to the entrance of his house, keys jingling in his hand.

It was cold inside.

The entrance-way light was on, but then Sally always left it on after it got dark. The young woman was worried that Kathryn or one of the 'kiddies' would come in when it was dark and slip on the polished marble. Worthington doubted whether that was likely – his wife had always been in bed by the time it was dark, and the children stayed upstairs when they were home – but he did enjoy entering a house that wasn't pitch black inside.

_What's wrong with the heating? _He frowned, throwing his keys on the table beside a maidenhair fern. _Damn it, I just got the gas refilled. I thought that was going to last until the end of autumn. _He tried to think if it had been colder than normal lately, but couldn't remember. The labs had been consuming him completely for the past two weeks, and he had noticed very little else.

Sally came through the door on the west side, dressed in her brown coat that reached to the knees. Well-pressed white trousers and a pale green sweatshirt made her look almost camouflaged, although the colouring system matched her rather mousey hair and stunning dark eyes. Worthington realised in the vague, married-man way that his maid could be attractive, if only she'd fix up her hair and do something about that monobrow. Also, sweetening her disposition could be an added plus - but Kathryn liked her, so Sally was there to stay, no matter how much she terrified the children.

"Eight-thirty," she said by way of greeting. She was scowling, and Worthington felt he knew where this conversation was headed.

"I'm sorry, Sally. Work has been so hectic lately. I will of course pay you double-time for the extra hours you have worked."

"It's not just that," she said, although the scowl lessened somewhat, "I don't mind working the extra hours, but if its going to be every day then I really would appreciate knowing in advance. I have things planned after I finish, and for the past week and a half I've been finishing at least two hours after my assigned time."

"I do apologise. I will consider my workload for the next week, and tell you when I expect to finish. I hope this will be satisfactory?"

She nodded, but haughtily. "Thank you, doctor. I appreciate it."

The thirty-something year old stalked past him, opening the left of the double-doors and slipping out into the night. Soon, the coughing engine would start up and chug through the darkened streets to the other side of the small town. Worthington stared after her, even though the door had long been closed, and wondered what a crabby lady like her could possibly have planned in her time off.

He shrugged. _Not my problem._

The cold was beginning to make him shake. He put his briefcase to the side of the doors and took off his shoes, placing them neatly beside it. In dark gray socks and a navy business suit, he padded over white marble, through the west door, and entered his lounge.

The carpet was red. It made him feel royal. The walls were polished wood, and they gleamed under dimmed lights. It reminded Worthington of the hunting lodges he used to visit with his father, when deer season was on. A big fireplace was on the far wall, and before it were comfortable stylish white-leather couches. He went to the side of the fireplace, and bent down to look at a small switch by the edge of the frame.

Most people seemed to think that the Worthingtons' palacial house was heated by the decorative fireplaces that were in nearly every room. This was, of course, possible, but supplying that much firewood through the colder months soon became tedious. Instead, the mansion was heated through a series of vents. There were two in most rooms and corridors, and they served to keep the place a pleasant temperature.

The central heating was off. _Well at least the gas hasn't run out already. I wonder why Sally didn't turn it on? _He turned the thermostat to 15, and listened with a satisfied smile as the heating system kicked in with a faint roar. He walked a few paces to the two seater opposite the fireplace, and fell into the small couch.

He had earned everything here. The central heating system, the Mercedes he loved to drive, the flat-screen TV mounted into the wall above the fireplace's mantlepiece. As a Worthington, he had a substantial amount of money left to him by his parents, but he had vowed to use that only for research grants. Worthington would rather have lived in trailer park than be forced to dip into those millions for daily activities.

The reason he could afford all these things was that he was a fantastic bio-chemist. That was why he was so concerned that William Stryker and James Logan had discovered a way to take a true sample of this miraculous blood where he had failed. Worthington was beginning to worry that these men were more intelligent than he was.

_Can't be_, he reassured himself for the umpteenth time. _They must have looked at the problem in a different way to you, that's all. A novel perspective is very important in research. It doesn't mean that you're no longer able to keep up with the current research, it doesn't mean..._

_...that Miss Frost will turn them into the Head Researchers, and dismiss you._

There. He'd finally voiced it to himself. He was terrified that these men, who had beat him once already and who's help he suspicioned he would need for further advancements, were going to replace him in the Hellfire Club. After all, both had a brutal ruthless streak that would appeal to Emma's future plans. The only thing that was stopping her from employing them was the fact that she already had a top-notch team of researchers.

_But what if she realizes that I'm not good enough, and William and James are?_

"If those two get hold of my research," he commented morbidly, "Alcatraz is doomed."

"Daddy?"

Worthington jerked in shock – he hadn't realised he'd been speaking aloud.

Warren stood in the doorway, dressed for bed in blue spiderman pyjamas.

"Warren? What are you doing up? It's after half-past eight."

The young child just looked at him, uncertain. Worthington could almost see the boy's thought processes – had he been told off? Ordered to bed? Asked a question? Or was he merely being told an observation? Eventually Worthington took pity on his son, and reached out a hand. The four year old tottered over to grab it, and was pulled onto the soft leather couch.

_So tiny_, the Doctor marveled, _but already four years old. My little boy. I remember the day you were born._

"Can't sleep?" he asked, kindly.

"Dark."

"Are you scared?" The little boy didn't answer, just clung to the offered hand and put the thumb of his free hand into his mouth. Worthington smiled. "It's okay to be frightened, you know."

Warren ignored this. Perhaps he'd already seen too many TV shows or heard too many fairy tales, and had been moulded by society to believe that men were strong and brave. Instead, he took his thumb from his mouth and wiped it on the flannelette spiderman that was on his left thigh. "Who're you talking to?"

"Oh, just myself," said Worthington, his cheeks turning pink.

"Why?"

"Helps me think, sometimes." With an embarrased laughed, he quickly changing the subject and continued, "Do you want something to eat? A glass a milk, maybe?"

"Milk 'n' cookies?" A hopeful look brightened his young face.

Worthington faked a sigh, "Oh, alright then, you little scamp. But if I get you milk and biscuits, then you have to do something for me, you understand?"

The younger Warren looked a little doubtful. "Like a promise?"

"Yes. A compromise."

"Com-promise?"

"It means we each do something that helps the other. In this case, I give you a delicious, if not very nutritious" - Worthington was quite proud, he'd made that rhyme - "midnight snack, and in return you stop sucking your thumb."

"Thumb?"

"Yes. If you continue that habit, which, I might add, is extremely unsanitary, you will cost me a fortune in orthodontist bills."

"Ortha..."

"They rearrange your teeth."

"Dentis'?"

"Only worse."

Stricken, the four-year old hid his thumb by bending it into his palm and folding his other fingers around it. He brought the first knuckle of his index finger to his mouth, and bit on that instead for comfort. Worthington sighed internally. He wasn't sure if chewing on finger-joints was much better than sucking one's thumb, orthodontist-ly speaking. His daughter Amelia was uncomfortably close to being a teenager, at twelve years of age, but for all his brilliance when it came to science, Worthington still hadn't quite figured out how to talk to children.

He had the disconcerting feeling that he'd just scarred his son for life.

"Come on then." He stood, still holding his son's hand. "Better go to the kitchen to get your snack."

The kitchen was a combination of wooden cabinets, green benches, and white walls. The handles of all the various drawers were painted gold, and the large cabinet doors had framed glass panels that allowed the expensive china and glassware to be admired by guests. Kathryn had personally helped design it, and Worthington was very pleased with the result of his wife's genius.

"Do you want warm milk?"

Warren nodded.

While the stove-top gradually warmed a pan full of milk, Worthington asked his son what he'd been up to during the day.

The boy shrugged.

"You must have done _something _today! Did you see any good cartoons? Play any really fun games?"

"Don' like Sally?" he offered.

"Why not?"

"She mean." The young voice tremoured through the kitchen.

_I agree. That woman is scary_. "What did she do?"

Warren shook his head and folded his arms around himself, tucking his hands under his armpits. "She mean," he repeated, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the gentle sounds of simmering milk.

A warning bell went off in the doctor's mind.

"Why is she mean, Warren?" He tried to think of things Sally could have done, things that would seem trivial to adults but very important to children. "Did she make you leave kindergarten before you were ready? Didn't she let you watch TV? Did she make you eat all the vegetables on your plate, even when you were too full?"

His son stared at him, arms across his chest and blue eyes large.

The saucepan hissed behind them, and Worthington quickly removed it from the element before the milk was overdone. He tested the temperature of the smooth liquid before pouring it into a mug and handing it to Warren.

"My cookie?"

There were two sorts in the antique jar. "Chocolate or plain?"

"Choc'late."

Worthington took out two, and then another. He carefully placed the expensive biscuit tin on a high shelf where Warren's small yet clumsy hands couldn't reach, and handed the three cookies over.

They were well received. Warren seemed happy and content as he chewed on the biscuits and slurped the warm milk. Some dribbled off the edge of his chin and dripped onto the spiderman pyjamas, but Worthington pretended not to notice. Clothes were clothes – they'd be washed tomorrow anyway.

"Time for bed?" he suggested cautiously.

A nod, and that small hand took hold of his again, pulling him towards the staircase. He followed the four-year old up the stairs to the second floor, and then to the bedroom.

It was a bit bland and boring for a child. The walls were a simple white, and the carpet a pale tan. The furniture was a little different, though. When Warren was old enough, these childish things would be removed and replaced by expensive pieces that were currently in storage. But for now, at least, his furniture was in the three primary colours and had rounded, bubble-like shapes. There were no toys lying about. Everything was kept neat and clean.

His hero, Spiderman, was depicted on the bedspread, clinging to the side of the building. Worthington pulled the covers back. "Finished?" he asked, gesturing towards the mug.

Warren nodded, and handed it over. The doctor took it and placed it carefully on the childishly-rounded bedside table.

"To bed," he ordered.

"Brush teeth?"

_Oh right. Fear of dentists. _A twinge of guilt passed through him. _Whoops._

"Yes, probably a good idea."

When Warren returned from the en-suite bathroom, he headed immediately for the white sheets, jumping onto the bed and burrowing under the covers. His father tucked the edges of the sheets back under the mattress, and pulled the spiderman duvet-cover up to the boy's chin.

"Do you want me to leave the light on?"

Warren shook his head, and snuggled further down into the bed until only his eyes were above the sheets.

"Okay then. Goodnight." He leaned over and kissed his forehead.

"G'night."

"Sleep tight."

Worthington carefully closed the door to his son's room, and padded back down the plush staircase to the lounge. He turned the thermostat down a little, and sank back into the couch.

_I'll murder that bitch if she keeps terrifying my children... I wonder what she has done now? _

_Maybe some bizarre form of punishment was to keep the heating turned off? _He shook his head dismissively, and swung his gray-socked feet up on the couch. _Nah, that's not punishment, that's abuse. And in Kathryn's case, dangerous neglect. Maybe she didn't realise it was so cold in here? I'll ask Amelia tomorrow. _

_As soon as I figure out the next step in my research, I'll be able to get rid of that surly nanny. I wish I didn't need to go crawling to William and James for their help. Goddamnit! I have a double phD! I've made so many advancements already. _

He felt grimly smug however that William and James would need him as much as he would need them. No one else had the ability or knowledge to complete the research. _Not that this rather pivotal fact would stop them from trying. _

_I hope Emma doesn't try to replace me..._

_I need to finish this project. I have to! If I don't..._

_I will_, he comforted himself, _I'm the best._

By the time Worthington went to bed, he had completely forgotten about the children's problems with Sally. As a matter of fact, he had already decided that they would be seeing more of her as his work would keep him at the labs for longer, at least until the end of the year.

* * *

_Random Musing 3:_

_Worthington speaks!_

_1) Here again I've tried to show that he's a pretty bad father. He's far too consumed by his research to remember what's going on or find out ways to properly interact with his kids. But he obviously cares about them._

_2) Originally this was a conversation between Worthington and Amelia (who we have heard much about, but not actually met) but I changed it to Warren. Partly this is because Warren might not have the vocabulary to verbally express what it is he hates about his nanny. If Amelia had been there, she might say something like "she's rude and purposefully insults us etc etc" which Worthington would not be able to forget or ignore. Also because this is a story about Warren, he needs to be in it frequently._

_3) Woo pre-Wolverine Logan comes to the party! That is the whole point of bullet-point number 3._

_Please click the button below to feed the plot bunnies. Real life has destroyed the plot bunnies' natural habitats, but with your review we can begin to rebuild the lands of inspiration and dedication. Please, donate today._


	4. The House on the Hill

_**Sorry this took so long to write! And it's short, too (insert sigh). My uni finals are over now though, so at least there's something to be happy about! I plan to write more (and study/work less) and get chapters up faster! They're waiting for you!**_

* * *

The house on the hill commanded an impressive view. When the restored villa, French style and of majestic proportions, was new, it overlooked a sea of grapevines that rippled down the slopes of the hills and an astonishing area of the flat. Sometimes, the vineyard would take tours, always ending with the visitors standing on the delicate balcony with glasses to sample, gazing out to where the tourguide said either the chardonnays, sauvignon blancs, cabernets or merlots were grown. The days of the massive vineyard were long gone, however. About fifty years ago the neighbouring town had spread, like spilled water, to the foot of the hills. The land belonging to the villa beyond the hill had been sold for an extravagant sum.

Emma Frost had bought the château de vin merveilleux three years ago on the condition that she kept the vineyard operational. She had been planning to anyway - the wine label, Ange Envoyé, brought in a fine little revenue and, in any case, produced her very favourite 'cab sauv'. The house was protected by a Historical Homes Trust, which stated simply that she must keep the facade of the house as is. So far, Emma had not regreted either of her concessions.

The château de vin merveilleux had a room with one wall of only glass that Emma had converted into a boardroom for very important meetings. It was important, she felt, to show a certain degree of respect by inviting important associates into one's home, and also had the added bonus of intimidating them and reminding them of her power and importance.

The boardroom was to the north, and was pleasantly cool at nine o'clock in the morning. The long table was gleaming glass, and the chairs surrounding it were comfortable, high-backed leather swivel chairs. There were only five, for the meeting consisted of five people. The rest had been stacked carefully in storage. In the middle of the table sat a large crystal decanter of whisky, beside a matching jug of water.

It was important to make a strong and lasting impression.

"Looks good."

Emma smiled, and turned towards her fiance. "You think so? This is the make it or break it, Jacko. I hope they have good news for us."

"They wouldn't dare come if it was bad news." He was leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed and watching her. He didn't smile very much, but his eyes glittered in a way that showed affection and amusement. "I'm flattered that you wanted me to sit in, but I'm not sure I can add much to the meeting."

"I want you to watch them, gauge their reactions. I don't know if the three of them will be able to work together. I'm not sure... well, I'm not sure what news they have for me, for a start, and so I can't be sure what direction I'm going to take..."

"I'll watch them," he promised. "Nothing will get passed me."

The door bell rang, its old-fashioned tone echoing through the wooden walls and off the polished floors. Jack went to answer the door without a word, pulling at the cuffs of his dark blue suit. Emma listened to him greet their guests and lead them through the house. She smoothed the front of her white jacket and trousers, and made sure the collar of her pink shirt was sitting correctly. Then, satisfied she looked ironically sweet and powerful, she sat in chair furthest from the door, turned away from the entrance and contemplated the view through the glass wall.

She heard them enter, counted to three, and then swiveled away from the breathtaking view to see them, Jacko, Stryker, Worthington and Logan.

"Gentlemen," she greeted, "Please, take a seat."

To her left sat Worthington, to her right William Stryker. James Logan sat beside his colleague opposite Jack. They all looked to her, faces anxious and expectant - a young expression, that was incongruent with the expensive suits they all wore.

"I understand you have some information of some importance to share with us, but before we get embroiled in business, please," she gestured towards the Whisky, "feel free to have something to drink.

Logan needed no second invitation, and reached for the whisky, splashing a generous amount into the bottom of his crystal glass. Worthington began to speak over the sound of the splashing liquid.

"It is of extreme importance, Miss Frost." he said earnestly. "The esteemed Mister Stryker and Mister Logan have found a way of keeping the properties of healing blood cells in a sample separated from the host."

"How?"

It was William Stryker who spoke next. His hair was thining and begining to go grey, but he retained a powerful physique and his chest swelled with pride as he explained. "It was a complicated process, ma'am, but we found that the blood cells, red and white, aged and deteriorated quickly once they had left the host."

"Why?"

He seemed piqued at being interrupted, but tried to hide it. Next to him, James downed his whisky and smacked his lips, loudly. "We assumed that the plasma was receiving special nutrients that gave them an almost immortal capacity. I'm not sure how familiar you are with the notion of stem and K line cells, miss, but - "

"I've done biology," Emma cut over, "tell me what you found."

"Well, we were right - the plasma of the subject is different from our own. It contains higher amounts of glucagon and a sugar compound that we hadn't come across before. We assume that this allows for quick uptake of sugar and fast metabolism - to put it simply, repairs are made before the damage is even registered. To emulate this, we synthesised an artificial replication of the plasma. It's not identical, but similar enough to keep the cells alive for a period of time."

"How long?"

"We're not sure yet. Further research is needed."

Emma leaned back in her chair, becoming suddenly aware that she was tilting towards Stryker almost hungrily. "Have you introduced foreign matter into the blood sample to see what happens?"

"A few, ma'am. Mainly dust, and foreign blood cells. The dust gets engulfed and destroyed, as expected, but the blood cells seem to take on the properties of their neighbours. We suspect that there is some exchange of chemicals that facilitates this change."

"We?" Jacko echoed.

"Myself and Mister James Logan," Stryker clarified, having the grace to look a little shamefaced having stolen all the limelight. Logan seemed indifferent, though, and was already eyeing the whisky with calculating intent.

"Where do you think future research could lead?" asked Emma, twirling a loose strand of blonde hair between her fingers, forgetting how childish it was in her interest.

"Possibly it could be used to overcome all disease, limit the production of few radicals and destroy cancerous cells. Of course, we will have to check long term effects on the immune sytem and such, but at this point in time the future looks bright."

"If I may?" Worthington interrupted, shooting a glance at Emma. She nodded, granting him permission to join the discussion. "I would like to be involved in this project. I believe my expertise as a biochemist would be of value, and my knowledge in the area of practical drug application and bioprospecting."

"That is very gracious of you to offer. Any objections, Mister Logan, Mister Stryker?"

Logan shook his head no, and although Stryker did not object vocally his face gradually turned the colour of puce.

"Mister Stryker?" repeated Emma, "Are you feeling alright?"

His beady eyes glanced over Jacko, Worthington and finally came to rest on Emma herself. "Fine," he choked out, "Just allergies, I think. I would, uh, I _welcome _Mister Worthington to the team."

"Doctor Worthington," corrected Doctor Worthington quietly.

"Of course. My apologies."

"Where did _you _study, Mister Stryker?" That was Jacko, an incurable pot-stirrer. He was leaning back in his chair, his head tilted in a way that seemed to be mocking. Emma saw the glint in his eye that meant he was laughing on the inside.

"Practical study," he replied, skin still an odd colour. "Bio-ops in 'Nam."

"Agent Orange?"

"Do you have anything to add, Mister Logan?" Emma spoke over the conversation which, at any point, could escalate into an argument and then a fullscale fight.

The scruffiest of the bunch gave her a thoughtful stare. "Well... I'm a biophysicist by education, and although I came in the top ten percentage I would be grateful of the expertise of someone such as Doctor Worthington." Logan shot a sidelong glare at Stryker. "We need the advice of someone as renowned in the world of bioprospecting because, to be honest ma'am, the formulation of a drug is the domain of a biochemist, not someone with my background."

"Well," she said, trying to hide her surprise at the elegance of Logan's response - she had been expecting something rough with a lot of 'ain't', "then I give Doctor Worthington permission to join you in your research. From eight o'clock Monday, Level B-5 will be under your command."

"Thank you," Worthington murmured, looking at the table. Logan raised his glass in salute, and Stryker tried to balance elation at having the use of the exclusive B-5 level and anger at having Worthington forced upon him.

"Well, gentlemen, if that is all?"

With a chorus of thanks and farewells, and promises of swift responses to requests and updates, the meeting concluded. Emma shut the door behind her guests and descended the spiralling stair case to their den, the most recent addition to the house.

The den made up the entire lowest floor of the house, but this did not mean it was enormous. The area of the lowest floor was limited by the rock foundations underneath the rest of the house, but was large enough to have a fully stacked bar, pool table, loung setting, wall-sized TV and yet another wall that had large glass windows overlooking the rest of the estate.

Emma poured a generous glass of Ange Envoyé Cab Sauv and sat heavily in one of the leather couches. Jack sat beside her, throwing an arm around her shoulders. She relaxed, leaning the back of her head against his chest.

"What did you see?"

"Nothing that wasn't obvious. William did not want Warren in the loop, but the reason for that I can only guess."

"What about James Logan? He was very quiet."

Jack silently gathered his thoughts, staring unseeingly through the large windows. Impatient, Emma wondered if she should dip into his mind to save the time and trouble involved in organising impressions into sentences. Before she reached for him telepathically however, he began to speak.

"James seems a little... wild," he said, slowly, "He's full of revenge and bitterness, about what I don't know. Towards the research and us, he doesn't seem to feel anything much. Benign disengagement. There was an edge that suggested he didn't like Stryker particularly well."

"Who does?" grumbled Emma, sipping her wine. "At least that's all over," she added with a sigh, "and now we shouldn't have to be involved until they come up with some results."

"They're going to know why I was there, Emma. That will probably make them resentful."

"Ah, my little empath. Don't worry so much." She caught the look on his face; unusually sullen, lips pressed into a tight line and loosing their colour under the pressure. Her brow furrowed. "What is it?"

They stared at each other. Although their heads were close together, Emma felt she was staring over a vast gulf. Jack's familiar features were twisted into an almost unrecognisable arrangement with some strange emotion. She wondered if he had his mutation 'switched off', if he could read her bewilderment. She felt tempted to use her own power, and find out what thoughts swirled inside that handsome head.

"Nothing," he said abruptly, taking his arm away from her shoulders and standing up. "I have to go."

"When will you be back?"

"I'm not sure."

Emma watched him leave, feeling hurt and helpless for the first time in a long while. There was a wincing aspect to his climb up the stairs that suggested he could feel her hurt - the bad part of being an empath was that others' emotions affected you personally. Emma was too confused to care. _Where did that come from? We were just talking about the meeting... _After allowing herself a few minutes of indulgent self-pity, she drained her wine glass and stood, smoothing non-existent creases from her white jacket.

Looking through the large French bay-windows, she half-smiled. Jack would come back. He always did, craving someone that could understand and sympathise. Usually he'd bring a large urn of flowers, often white roses, and pamper her for the week. In the mean time, Emma had an empire to run. Yelling at people always took her mind off pre-marital troubles.

She placed the empty glass on the corner of the bar and walked up the stairs, schooling her features into chilly indifference. Alcatraz had been seen to. Now for the Hellfire Club.

* * *

_Random Musing 4:_

_I know, it's short - and I'm sorry! But I couldn't spin it out any more and the meeting needed to be had! You know how meetings are._

_ Anyway, it at least introduces an individual called "Jacko/Jack", and also the first real glimpse of Stryker. Warning - this time line IS out of sync with both real life (eg Vietnam War) and the comics (Emma is older than she should be). If this gets confusing, let me know! Basically, the only thing I'm taking "for real" is what was in the movies. Back to the first point, because this chapter is written with large contribution from Emma's opinions, her fiance is referred to as Jack or Jacko depending on how fond she is of him at the particular moment. You can probably see that she's most fond of him when they are a team at the meeting, but that cools off pretty quick once they're on their own again. I thought it added something, so put it in. Sorry if it got a little confusing. Did it have the intended effect? Could you tell that there was slight change in the relationship? (I enjoy pop-psychology too much. I apologise)  
_

_ Hope it was good to read! Please review for the plot bunnies, who have grown thin and listless during the exam period.  
_


	5. Family Dinner

**AN:**_ I apologise for such a long wait, and thank everyone who has read and/or reviewed. Hope you all had a very merry Christmas!_

Her father was happy. Not a gleeful, merry-go-round type of happy, but a smug, cigar-and-brandy type of happy that seemed available only to middle aged, upper class businessmen who had just sealed an important deal. He came home early the day of the meeting, smiling at his daughter as he shucked off his shoes and jacket in the entrance hall. He opened his mouth, perhaps to give a greeting or explain why he was back, but before the words spilled out Sally walked in, her face twisting into comical shock.

"Doctor! What are you doing here?"

"Time to spend some time with the family, you know how it goes, old girl. Tell you what, you finish up for the day now and go home. I'll pay you full wages, of course."

Sally leaped at the chance to have some paid time off, and within fifteen minutes the groan of her car's old engine could be heard through the walls. Worthington laughed and shook his head at the sound of it. He winked at Amelia and ruffled her hair before passing by to go up the steps. She stared after him as he made his way to her mother's sickrooms, thinking that maybe he would turn back and tell her what was going on, or even ask her how her day had been.

She sighed when her father's voice leaked from her mother's rooms in an excited whisper, with complicated words and the names of people she didn't know. It seemed like they wouldn't be having a father-daughter chat any time soon.

"What's goin' on?"

Amelia turned to face Warren. His little face was screwed up in bewilderment, peering around her to try to see the shut door to their mum's room even though he was on the wrong floor. He had a mark on the sleeve of his red t-shirt, probably from some craft activity at the kindergarten. Absently, Amelia reach out and rubbed it off.

"Dad's home early today," she replied shortly.

"Why?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why?"

He smiled cheekily when she glared at him. "Don't do that. It's childish."

"Why?"

"Because it is. Cut it out now."

"Why?"

She made her voice as threatening as she could and towered over the four year old. "Because if you don't," she menaced, "I'll thrash seven types of hell out of you."

Warren turned white. He dropped his gaze to the red carpet and crossed him arms in front of him. "Meanie," he groused. "It was a joke."

Amelia sighed. "I know. I'm sorry." She took his small hand in hers and squeezed it gently, suggesting they go to the lounge and sit down, perhaps watch some TV. Casting a glance over her shoulder to where Worthington had gone, she led Warren through the West hallway to the lounge.

The Simpsons were playing. Warren watched with eager but largely uncomprehending eyes, laughing at the moving pixels more than the jokes - or so Amelia suspected. In the ad breaks they talked, each telling the other what they had done during the day. Her brother let forth a stream of words about play-dough, glue, cardboard and glitter, and she pretended to be impressed by his tale of his craft-time creation, raising her eyebrows and saying things like "that was a clever idea", not because she was patronizing him but because she was delighted by his enthusiasm. She was smiling at the while, but he was so caught up in relaying his activities that he didn't seem to realise. She told him briefly about her day, skipping over things that seemed 'too old', like how Mitch had been watching her or the name-calling fight with Jessie. Then the ad break was over, and Bart was back on the screen doing something rebellious.

During the episode, Worthington came down the stairs and passed the lounge on his way to the kitchen. Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, Amelia stood up and told Warren she'd be back soon. She followed her father's path to the kitchen, and stopped in the doorway. He was wearing a pink, frilly apron and humming "Stranger on the Shore" off key as he examined a chicken critically.

Words formulated in her throat but never quite reached her mouth -_ why are you home so early, why did you send Sally away, why didn't you talk to me when you got home? _In the end, she shrugged her shoulders and narrowed her eyes, sent a sharp glance to her father's oblivious back, and stalked back to the lounge.

She sat down beside Warren again, crossing her arms and huffing.

"Okay?" he asked, not looking away from the screen.

"Yeah. Fine." A pause, then she continued, "Dad's cooking chicken."

Perhaps Warren would have answered, but the children's mother entered the room slowly, one hand on her brow. Amelia rose as Kathryn swayed unsteadily and offered her hand. Kathryn shook her head and stumbled over to the other leather couch, sinking into it gratefully.

"Do you think you could turn the telly down a little, please?" she asked mildly.

"Course." Amelia snatched the remote from her little brother's lap and jabbed the buttons until the volume was almost muted. "How you feeling today, Mum?"

"A little better, dear." The older woman flashed a brief smile that looked more like a grimace. The expression sent a wave of pain through Amelia, who doubted her mother was feeling better at all. Kathryn was still as insubstantial as a cloud, a cotton-white to boot. She shifted under her daughter's scrutiny. "Your father is cooking dinner for us tonight. Won't that be nice?"

"Depends on whether or not he can cook," the pre-teen snorted.

Kathryn's face tightened, but she made no move to check the behaviour. Instead, she rubbed her palm wearily over her forehead and closed her eyes. "Perhaps you could help him set the table?"

Resentfully, Amelia agreed that perhaps she could. She stamped into the dining room, moving to the small set of cupboards that haboured the cloth place mats and napkins. The dining room was a large, rectangular room that seemed to have been made to house the redwood dining table. It could sit twelve, fully extended, but at the moment was 'compacted' by a clever design into sitting eight. The dark wood was covered only by a glaze of polish. Amelia put the creamy cotton place mats in the correct positions, followed by a neatly folded purplish-red napkin in the centre of the place mat. Then a trip to the kitchen for the cutlery. She placed them the way she had been taught; dessert spoon and fork innermost, then the main fork and knife slightly higher, then en tree knife, fork and soup spoon back in line with the dessert cutlery. Next, a water glass above the main knife - plus red wine glasses for her parents.

Amelia stood back from the table to make sure everything was even - taking pleasure in making everything neat and perfect as she simmered away at her parents. The settings were dwarfed by the large table, so she put more place mats in the centre of the table. After a moment or two's thought, she placed a bright copper candelabra as the centrepiece. To one side she put salt and pepper, to the other a water jug. After lighting the tapered candles and blowing the match out, the table was set.

"This is pretty!" her mother commented. Kathryn was supporting herself against the door jam, looking at the table and smiling. "Thank you, Amelia."

"It's okay. Uh... you sit down, and I'll go see how Dad's doing. Shall I?"

"Okay, dear. I'll make myself comfortable."

Worthington was still in the kitchen and wearing the pink apron, but he'd stopped humming. As Amelia entered, he pulled on an oven-mitt and twisted the dial to turn the oven off. The door released a cloud of hot air as he reached in for the roast chicken. He set it on the bench and closed the oven door, and began to hum again.

"Dad? Nearly ready?"

"What's that?" He turned towards her voice. "Oh, yes. Just presentation now. D'you want to put the dinner plates out, please?"

She rolled her eyes - _only ever speaks to me to ask me to do something _- and got four of the big plates. "Is there soup?" she asked, eying the bowls in the cupboard.

"Oh, yes. I s'pose we better put soup bowls out first, then?"

"Yeah." She put the plates on the bench top and took out soup bowls, biting her tongue to stop a disrespectful comment or snigger from passing her lips. _Inept. _"You gonna serve the soup at the table?"

"Going to, Amelia, not 'gonna'," he corrected, twisting his mimicking until it was more of a cruel parody. "And no. Bring them over here."

He still hadn't turned to face her. She stuck her tongue out at his back but crossed the wooden floor. She held two bowls out towards him as insolently as possible and watched him through the fall of her too-long fringe, hating the way he held the ladle and poured the yellowy pumpkin soup so perfectly, placing a bacon bone in the dead centre of the bowl. He dropped a sprig of basil over the bones, and then gestured for her to take them out. She rolled her eyes and went.

_Jeez, what a conversation. Couldn't get a word in._

With stomping, melodramatic steps that somehow went unnoticed, Amelia ferried the last two soups to the table and went back to help her father with the dinner plates and the main meal. The dinner plates were placed in a stack at Worthington's end of the table, waiting until they were needed. Warren had slipped into his place at the table, and Worthington looked around at his family with a beaming smile.

"Bon appetite!" he proclaimed, and went on to say a very swift Grace.

Sour as she was, Amelia had to admit the soup was good. The bacon bone gave a smoky hint of meat to the soup, offsetting the pumpkin in a mouth-wateringly good combination. Worthington had also brought out some toasted 'flutes' of French bread. The butter melted into a creamy goop on the surface. It was good.

Between savouring the soup and the bread, Amelia drifted in and out of the dinner-time conversation. After her father's meeting had been exhausted, Kathryn turned to her and asked, "How is Jessica Wentworth?"

"Wentworth?" repeated Worthington. "As in Stephen Wentworth's daughter?"

"The very same. A very bright, studious girl."

Amelia thought about that, comparing the bland description against the Jessie she had fought with at lunchtime under the crab apple tree in the playground. Her tartan skirt had been rolled over at the waist to show more thigh than was the uniform's norm, and with her white, short sleeved shirt being twisted into a knot at the navel, Jessie had made Amelia feel positively matronly.

"Very bright," she agreed, wondering how Jessie ever got such a glowing reputation among parents.

_'Why else would Mitch be looking at you, huh?.'_ Jessie's mum's mascara had been running down her cheeks. _"Christ,' _ she said when she noticed. _'Now the head's gonna know I wore makeup to school. You're gonna pay, Worthington. I'm gonna kick you ass.'_

_"Whatever, bitch.'_ The look on Jessie's face had been priceless. She never used any words stronger than 'slut', 'ass' and 'Christ', and thought she was 'bad-ass' for doing so. She probably didn't suspect that Amelia even knew the word bitch. Jessie was five months older, already thirteen, and got all sorts of strange ideas from her sixteen year old sister and eighteen year old brother.

"You too still good friends?" asked Kathryn, nibbling at her bread.

Amelia pictured Jessie's face as the bell had rung, blackened by mascara with puffy red eyes as she tugged her crumpled shirt out of the knot and pulled her skirt down. There was anger, jealousy and hurt in there, but also respect. "We've had a bit of a tiff," she said honestly, "but we'll get over it."

Worthington cleared the table of soup bowls the second Warren finished his last slurping spoonful, and handed the plates out. Amelia watched in fascinated disgust as her brother 'slurped' a potato and crammed a fork-full of chicken into his open mouth. He noticed her scrutiny and pulled a grotesque face which caused chicken and potato to ooze out the corners of his mouth.

"One day the wind will change and your face will be stuck like that," Worthington said warningly, helping himself to more chicken.

"Really?"

"Yes." The two adults shared an amused look down the length of the table as Warren hurriedly swallowed his mouthful without chewing so his face could return to normal.

Table-chat continued while Amelia thought of Mitch. She didn't know what Jessie was so jealous of - when Amelia had caught Mitch staring at her from the side her first thought was that she had something stuck to her school uniform. After a while the constant glances he threw across the classroom got irritating and at interval he came swaggering over and was a complete jerk. The only redeeming quality about him was that he was a little attractive. At least he washed his hair every two days, which was a lot better than some of the other boys in her class. Probably that was why Jessie liked him so much.

So, although Amelia had no interest in boys in general and Mitch in particular, she held the notion that he fancied her to her heart like a gem. A boy liked her.

"How are you finding your chicken?" Worthington asked, looking around.

"Perfect, dear."

"Mmph!"

"It's alright."

She was the last to offer her less than glowing recommendation, which earned a furrowing of her mother's brow. Worthington didn't notice, and his somber face split into a grin.

"Good," he said, "I was worried that, being out of practice, I'd make a mistake somewhere along the line."

"Nah, it's good, Dad," she said grudgingly.

"No, not 'nah', darling." Kathryn smiled softly. "Don't forget your education."

The dessert that followed was delicious, but the conversation that flowed around it was tedious to the twelve year old's ears. She felt surly and argumentative, but wasn't really sure why. Because Worthington hadn't said "hello" to her when he had first got home? He hadn't said it to Warren either, but the kid wasn't sulking. Being more or less ignored until her father found it convenient to remember her wasn't anything new.

_I've never cared before._

_Well, never cared enough to make me feel this way before._

All in all, she was relieved when dinner was over. Her parents were smiling at each other as she and Warren took the plates out to the kitchen, giddy as love-struck teenagers. They probably thought the family dinner was a success. Maybe they hadn't even noticed their daughter's unsocial disposition, or if they had maybe they had not been worried about it. Amelia snapped on some kitchen gloves and scrubbed the plates, putting them in the dish rack to dry.

When her chores were done, she ran without a word through the neat garden.

Her parents had contracted gardeners to come in every week and keep it tidy. The gardeners were very good; the outside of the house was as museum-like as the inside. Often, Kathryn would be at her balcony, looking about at the garden and remembering happier, healthier times when she would be on her knees in the dirt, weeding, with a floppy white sun hat over her hair.

Amelia dashed between bushes, coming at last to the Japanese Maple. She expertly wrapped her hands around the lowest branch and hoisted herself up, legs stretching for the next hold. Employing some of the amateur acrobatics she learned from the bars in the playground, she twisted and swung herself halfway up the tree before finding a comfortable branch. She let a leg hang on either side of it, resting her back against the trunk. This was her special hideaway, her place, surrounded by the colourful red leaves where no one else could reach her. Tucked away from the world, she let her mind wander.

_Was it the fight with Jessie? Was it Mitch, and his sniggering friends? Boys are stupid. Jessie'll come around. Then she can go back to flirting with Mitch, and he'll leave me alone._

_It's Dad, isn't it? He thinks he can just waltz back into our lives whenever he's had a good day, smile and cook a chicken, and his family problems are fixed. We're not a book he can just pick up whenever he wants! Mum's sick and he's never here to take care of her. Warren's got no one to take him to the parent day at kindergarten. So what's this all important question that you're trying to solve in the labs every day, Dad? And even if you do get the answer, is it gonna be worth it? When you decide to retire early and come back to a house where Mum is nearly dead and I'm leaving and Warren hates you, will it be worth the long hours at work then?_

"'melia?"

"Oh." She looked down from her perch to see Warren's little chubby face peering up at her. "Hello, you."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, kiddo. I'm fine."

"Jus', you seem upset."

The concern in his young voice was heart-rending. Amelia felt she had no choice but to abandon her self-reflection time and shimmy down the tree trunk, landing on the hard earth with a thump. He gazed up at her, blue eyes seeming impossibly large.

"I'm fine. It's just that Dad being home makes me feel sad."

"Why you feel sad?"

She thought about this for a while, remembering the ideas that had come to her in the tree. "I guess," she said slowly, "because it makes me wish that he was home more often. That we acted like a family more often."

"It makes me happy," her brother announced, a wide grin replacing his earlier worry. "We act like a fam'ly now, right? Makes everything good again."

"No!" she cried out, startling even herself with her outburst. "He can't just swan in and pick us up whenever he wants! We're not some kind of book you can chuck a bookmark in whenever you want to do something else!" Her mouth opened to launch into a tirade, but the words died in her throat when she realised Warren was screwing his face up in a prelude to crying. "I'm sor-" she began, but it was too late. A heart-rending wail burst from his lips, his face turning suddenly red and his cheeks shiny with spilled tears.

Amelia dropped to her knees, making them the same height, and drew her arms around him. At first he pushed against her, hurt and confused, but eventually he let himself be held. The cries stopped after a time, and the siblings stayed in that position, with Amelia smoothing the golden curls with one hand. When they pulled apart, she reached into his pocket for the Thomas the Tank Engine handkerchief and wiped his damp cheek and upper lip.

"I'm sorry, Warren. I didn't mean to make you cry. Come on, let's go in and watch some TV, ay?"

He nodded, and let himself be lead out of the garden. Neither of them noticed Worthington, who had come looking for his children. His elated mood had fled and, when he was sure that Warren and Amelia had gone by without seeing him, allowed one tear and one sigh to spill from him.

"I'll make it up to you," he promised, "all of you."

_----_

**Random Musing 5:**

- I feel sorry for Worthington in this. He's all excited about his new line of research and is trying to share it with his family, dreaming of the bright new future and hoping to get it started right away, and then he sees that his daughter doesn't really want him in it

- of course, the fact that Amelia is so angry with him proves that she loves him, but she's hurt by coming second (she feels) in his agenda

- I can't really remember when I first became interested in boys. But I do remember being asked out by a few swaggering idiots and even though I wanted nothing to do with them I always felt a little special that they'd asked me. Still, a little doubting part of my brain wonders if it was some kind of cruel joke they were playing on me

- Amelia's "love interest" Mitch is named, rather unfairly, after the current boy who holds me as his item of affection. If I warm towards real-life Mitch then Amelia may feel more kindly to her Mitch. At the moment I am mildly fond of him, the kind of fond someone is of a flatmate's dog who, while being cute and fluffy, constantly eats your slippers. Watch this space!

Finally, hope you all had a Merry Christmas and all the best for the New Year! Happy holidays, folks, and don't forget to pass some of the holiday cheer onto the plot-bunnies in review form!


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